


Meme Ficlet: Fulcrum

by greywash



Series: Meme Ficlets (Spring 2012... and onward) [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-08
Updated: 2012-05-08
Packaged: 2017-11-05 01:47:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/400573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greywash/pseuds/greywash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Meme ficlet, archived off Tumblr; unbeta'ed and un-Britpicked.</em>
</p>
<p><strong>4seiji requested</strong>: What do Three, Five, and Seven give One for Christmas?</p>
<p>
  <strong>1. Moriarty<br/></strong>
  <strong>3. John<br/></strong>
  <strong>5. Lestrade<br/></strong>
  <strong>7. Mycroft</strong>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Meme Ficlet: Fulcrum

In the winter, there was Mycroft. Mycroft made arrangements. Of course he did. "Torture" is really such an ugly word, but "coercive questioning" has always smacked of dishonesty, and Mycroft prides himself on being honest—within limits, of course. Of course. He always has. So Mycroft was honest, within limits—the wrong limits, and Moriarty tore him open, pulled out three decades of history, words to be sharpened to be used as weapons. Mycroft's always been naïve in the most frustrating of ways. A family failing, perhaps.

Lestrade is next. Of course it would come to Lestrade. Lestrade has always seen his duty clearly, and however he might push at the elastic edges of that in the interests of justice, permit Sherlock what liberties are necessary to do the job, there are certain rules that Lestrade simply cannot break. He knew what he was doing when he came to the flat, but he had to do it anyway, and the bleakness in Lestrade's face weighs nothing in the face of metal cuffs and flashing lights, that split-second of planning before decision before action, in which Sherlock becomes a criminal in fact, the inevitability of prophecy made manifest, with a gun to John's head. Moriarty must've enjoyed that. Sherlock probably would've, in his shoes.

Because John came first, of course. John fell into his life like a gift, surprising and undeserved, with admiration and wonder and something very much like innocence, behind it all; the one person in London who saw Sherlock not-quite-clearly, who _pulled_ at him, with the weight of that dishonest and transformative faith. Before, there was Sherlock, and then in an instant there was John, and then there was Sherlock, changed, and in that moment, from that very first moment, Moriarty has had what he needed. Because Sherlock would do anything for John and it is not a surprise—it could never be a surprise—none of this is a surprise, not Mycroft's hubris or Lestrade's sense of duty or John, always John, the fulcrum beneath Moriarty's lever, solid and steady as Sherlock's world tips and pivots, unbalanced, to rotate clumsily around him. Moriarty has always had what he needed, since John came.

Sherlock rests his toe just over the edge. The wind catches his hair, and his breath catches in his throat. He watches the cab pull up and into position, and then he pulls his phone out of his pocket, and dials.


End file.
